


Double Espresso

by LiliGrey



Series: Mocha [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, Illya being a jerk, M/M, Misunderstandings, their first date went horribly wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 08:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8198968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiliGrey/pseuds/LiliGrey
Summary: “So tell me, Kuryakin, what are you so afraid of?" Illya backed a step and bared his teeth. He spun around and desperately scanned the crowd behind him.But Napoleon was already gone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Their first date went horrendously wrong and their pasts and insecurities catch up with them. Misunderstandings ensue. Warning for double angst!
> 
> Just as a heads up, the overall tone of this one is quite emotional and melancholy, very different from the other parts of this fic, but it’s got a happy ending, so don’t worry :P

Illya cursed aloud as he pressed a wad of cloth to his right side to staunch the flow of blood. He, of all people, should have known better than to let his guard down, even when his mind is otherwise occupied.

 

Tonight was going to be his first “official” date with Napoleon.

 

Ever since they first met in Rome, they’ve had a strong affinity. Not one to trust easily, Illya had found himself gravitating towards the American from the moment Napoleon went out of his way to make him beef stroganoff on their first meeting. And later opened up a mocha shop just for him in New York.

 

For months they have spent almost all of Illya’s down time in New York in each other’s company, doing things that Gaby had accused of being “sweet and domestic, just like an old married couple.” Illya had rolled his eyes at that, but secretly, and somewhat reluctantly, he had to agree she had a point. Not that he would ever admit that to her out loud.

 

The thing is, people like him do not commit easily. In fact, people like him should not commit at all. Ever. In the spy business, danger follows you everywhere, and any weakness will be exploited mercilessly. He knew that very clearly, backwards and forwards, but he had decided to go ahead and commit anyway.

 

Because Napoleon is worth it.

 

Since that last mission, he had finally gave in to the depth of his emotions, and by calling Napoleon that night, he not only broke his vow but also realized that Napoleon was the only person grounding him to stay sane and human.

 

Thus deeply in thought and emotional turmoil (no he was not nervous), he had rushed back from headquarters after a late debriefing, mentally digging through his wardrobe, and failed to notice the first signs of intrusion.

 

It made him respond a second too late, and in his world, a second is sometimes all it takes between life and death.

 

He had reacted completely on reflex after the initial assault, but it was a very near thing and he was left bleeding from a knife wound.

 

He surveyed his ruined living room and the bodies of his two assailants with a cold calculating gaze, his mind going through the next plans of action. His communicator was destroyed in the fight and his apartment was clearly compromised. He needs to contact HQ to see…

 

He looked up abruptly as the doorbell rang, loud and sharp in the deadly silence of the room.

 

Napoleon.

 

_Shit._

 

For a moment he panicked, not wanting his Cowboy to see such a violent and bloody scene. He was planning to finally divulge the whole truth of his actual job tonight, but not in such a traumatizing way. He quickly dismissed that thought, however, as he assessed the danger. It is highly possible that there are others around, waiting to finish the job. He cannot allow something like this put his Cowboy in danger.

 

He snatched open his front door and quickly dragged Napoleon inside.

 

“Hi, Per…Ommph!” Napoleon tripped over the threshold and crashed into his chest, dropping a banquet of roses onto the carpet in a flurry of pedals.

 

“Illya? What was that ab…” Napoleon’s eyes opened wide with shock as he took in the scene surrounding him, then even wider as his took in Illya’s current state. “Shit! Are you alright, Illya? Oh my god, is that a gunshot wound?” His voice went high and was starting to border onto hysteria, the hand he extended towards Illya’s side trembling slightly.

 

Illya wanted nothing more than to hold the other man in his arms and sooth him, and it pained him to see Cowboy in such distress, but now is not the time. He has to get them both to safety.

 

“I will explain later. I am sorry, but we must go. Now.” He quickly mapped out potential escape routes in his mind and decided on the fire escape. “It is not safe here. We should go by fire escape.”

 

He grabbed Napoleon’s arm to steer him towards the door, knowing they have little time. “Come, Napoleon.”

 

“Illya, wait.”

 

Illya stopped dead in his tracks. It was not the words that made him stop, but the way Napoleon said it. His voice lacked the terror and urgency Illya would have expected, and was instead a level of calm he would normally associate with...

 

He turned and stared, but Napoleon was already moving past him, his posture more alert than tense and his gait fast but not hurried. “The staff entrance would be better, and my car is parked round the back.”

 

It was a completely logical and reasonable statement, but Illya felt fingers of icy dread start to settle over him. It was too reasonable, the kind of reason he himself would think of, checking all available exits and the fastest way of getting away before he enters a place.

 

Just like any agent on the field would.

 

They wound through the corridors in a tense silence, luckily not encountering any staff due to the late hour. He watched as Napoleon effortlessly picked the staff entrance without so much as a glance at it, then they quietly slipped out of the building and into the car.

 

Despite all the tension and apparent urgency, Napoleon drove smoothly and calmly, as if they were just any normal resident leaving the building. If it was under different circumstances, Illya would have applauded his acting abilities, but now, he just felt that cold lump of dread settle deeper into his stomach.

 

Just as they were about to round the corner, a hail of bullets rained from behind them, seemingly coming from the roof of the adjacent building. They both ducked as glass showered upon them when windows shattered, but Napoleon put on a burst of speed and maneuvered the car like a professional, quickly mingling in with the evening traffic.

 

Illya looked back. From that direction, if they had taken the fire escape, they would have been completely exposed and at the mercy of the shooter.

 

He felt colder somehow, and he knew it wasn’t just because of the blood loss.

 

They spent the whole journey in silence. Napoleon drove expertly, but his knuckles were bone white on the steering wheel. He doubled back and drove on seemingly random routes to lose any potential trail, finally stopping in front of a nondescript building.

 

Napoleon opened the door and turned on the lights, and Illya immediately knew this was a safehouse.

 

Somehow, that fact was the last straw for him.

 

“Illya, let me have a…”

 

Once again that night, Napoleon didn’t get to finish his sentence as he was bodily dragged around, although this time, it was an iron grip around his neck as he was pushed back onto the wall.

 

“Who are you?” Illya’s voice was harsh and his accent became much more pronounced. “Why you have safehouse?” He felt his hands starting to shake and he tightened his grip.

 

“Hey, Peril, calm down, it’s just me, we are safe now.” Napoleon held up a placating hand, his tone calm and soothing, and it grated more than anything on Illya’s already frayed nerves.

 

Illya snarled and Napoleon’s eyes widened. It took him a moment to realize why.

 

He was holding his service weapon to Napoleon’s face, barrel pointing directly between his eyes.

 

“Illya.” Napoleon said slowly, eyeing the gun nervously but still without the fear that should have been in him from the start. “I just need to look at your wound first and then I’ll explain. Alright?”

 

Illya just stared at him and neither of them moved.

 

He did not know how long they stayed that way, held at an impasse. His eyes bore into Napoleon’s, but he felt like he was staring into the face of a stranger, a man he did not know at all. It was almost ironic, how he can analyse and define characters as he walk into a room during his missions and still failed to read the man who had been closest to him. He wanted to laugh.

 

He also wanted to cry.

 

The screech of tires on asphalt broke him out of his reverie and he jerked back as if burnt.

 

“That’s probably your retrieval team.” Napoleon said lamely, his voice flat.

 

Illya just shook his head as he backed away from the man he thought he loved, walking towards the window. His gun still held out to hold the other man in place.

 

“Illya, wait!” This time, his tone was much more urgent and agitated. “Let me explain!”

 

“Don’t.” Illya said icily, voice cold as his heart. “I don’t want to listen to excuse, Solo.”

 

He saw Napoleon visibly flinch from his words.

 

He flipped out of the window and did not look back.

 

//////////

 

The first thing Gaby did after sending the medical team to retrieve Illya was to call Napoleon.

 

Her friend didn’t pick up. Anxious now but ever persistent, she tried again. And then again.

 

Finally, Napoleon picked up the third time round. Relief rushed through her as she asked urgently, "Napoleon! Are you alright?"

 

"Gaby.” His voice sounded tired, more exhausted then she had ever heard him. “I'm, no, I’m not alright.” A weak, mirthless chuckle came across the line. Napoleon’s voice was hoarse as he whispered. “I don't feel so good."

 

"I'm coming to get you. Give me your location." Fuck the mission. She quickly brought up the emergency contact app on her phone, arranging for an emergency dispatch.

 

"I'm sorry, Gaby. I. Thanks for everything." Napoleon’s voice was eerily calm.

 

"No, no no no no no. Napoleon..." Her fingers froze on the screen and cold dread gripped her heart as she guessed where this conversation was going.

 

"I don't regret meeting him." His voice was softer now, slightly wistful.

 

"Napoleon, don't you dare...”

 

"Goodbye, Gaby." There was a certain finality to the words.

 

"...disappear on, shit!" The line went dead. She stared at the screen and wanted to break something badly. Damn it! How had her favourite two boys gotten into so much trouble by themselves?

 

Speaking of breaking something…Perhaps Plan D would be the best course of action now.

 

She finished the mission that very evening and took the first flight back to New York, leaving behind debris and chaos.

 

The urge to break something did not diminish but grew stronger. Especially the urge to break some fingers of a certain Russian agent.

 

When she finally got back to New York, she let herself into Illya’s apartment, calmly took out her pistol, and shot the vodka bottle straight out of Illya Kuryakin’s hands. At his confused and slightly wounded look, all the anger she carefully kept within her on the way back erupted like a volcano.

 

"You of all people, Kuryakin! I never would have introduced you to Napoleon if I had known you were such a jerk!” Her voice shook with the fury she felt on behalf of her friend, and the utter disappoint she felt towards her partner.

 

“So what if he was once an art thief? What's he done to you, huh? He risked his life, drove you out in a hail of bullets, took you to his sanctuary, exposing himself to the exact people he wanted to avoid and what did you do? You literally slapped him in the face and stabbed him in the back!" Her voice rose up into a shout.

 

The silence following her accusations was deafening.

 

"Art thief?" Illya’s voice was whisper soft and slightly slurred, and that crease between his eyebrows grew deeper.

 

"Yes! What's your problem with that? You kill people for a living, for God sake!" She can’t believe Illya dared to hold prejudice over Napoleon’s former occupation.

 

"Cowboy is art thief?" Now Illya is looking genuinely confused.

 

" _Retired_ art thief!” Illya didn’t _know?_ “Oh I can't believe you, what did you think he was? An enemy agent trying to get to you?"

 

A deep silence followed.

 

"Oh my god, are you serious?” Realisation finally dawned on her and she was so exasperated she wanted to smack her idiotic partner upside the head. _All this misery because of a little misunderstanding?_ “You know what? I should have just left you to drown in guilt if they got to Napoleon first and hurt him."

 

That finally, finally, seemed to get through to Illya's thick skull.

 

"They got Cowboy?! They hurt him?!"

 

Gaby groaned. "Where is your extra stash of vodka?"

 

This is going to be a long day.

 

//////////

 

It took U.N.C.L.E. three days to completely erase a certain infamous international organisation off the face of the planet. For Gaby, it didn’t take that much effort really, just a few well placed phone calls here and there. As the overly emotional rookie working undercover at Napoleon’s coffee shop told heart rending stories of how poor, innocent Napoleon was injured and cannot serve them coffee, all of his usual patrons, namely U.N.C.L.E. employees, went into righteous rage. Gaby was impressed at how popular Napoleon had become in a few short months. Apart from charming all the ladies, Napoleon had also played matchmaker and given lots of dating advice to the agents, and agents are a fiercely loyal bunch. Namely, they protect their own. She hopes Illya realize the full value of the treasure he held in his hands.

 

It took Illya five days to find Napoleon, and he was ashamed to say it was mainly by luck. After being led around Europe on a wild goose chase, grudgingly impressed at his Cowboy’s skill in losing his trail, a moment of inspiration and nostalgia made him go on the plane to Rome.

 

For him, it had been five sleepless and guilt-wracked days. Every time he close his eyes, he would see Napoleon laughing in the golden sunlight at a joke he told, Napoleon smiling smugly as he was complimented for his cooking, Napoleon looking at those bodies on his living room carpet in shock, Napoleon driving around New York with a grim determination, Napoleon captured and bound and hurting, Napoleon looking at him with dimming eyes and bleeding out in his arms.

 

Every time he would jerk awake with a painful gasp, his chest heavy and his limbs weak with fear. He needs to find Napoleon. He needs to make sure he is safe.

 

After that? He does not know.

 

However, the moment he stepped into the pub he finally tracked Napoleon to, his vision went red.

 

There, sitting at the mostly empty bar top, was the man that he had dreamed and thought about, but he was not alone. A muscled man sat next to him, with an arm swung around Napoleon’s shoulders, pulling his Cowboy flush against him.

 

Mine, mine, mine! The inner beast snarled.

 

He stalked to the bar and grabbed onto that offending arm, putting enough force behind his grip to pull it straight out of its socket. What he didn’t expect was for the man to bend his arm at an almost impossible angle, muscles flexing, twisting out of his grip and hit him square in the jaw.

 

He staggered back a step.

 

Looking back up again, he took in the other man towering over him like a wall of meat and muscle, arms bulging and heavily tattooed.

 

“Illya?”

 

He vaguely registered Napoleon standing behind the other man, face tired and eyes red.

 

The man is standing between him and his Cowboy. With a deep growl, he went on the attack.

 

However, his tired and abused body could only take him so far. Within moments, he was pinned to the ground, his weakened body unable to move out of the larger man’s hold. Pain exploded as he was punched in the side he was wounded and he held back a scream, only letting out a pained grunt.

 

"That one's for Napoleon." A gruff voice said next to his ear. Then he felt something warm and slimy slide on his face and realized the man was smearing the blood from his wound across his cheek bone. "This? This one is for shame. Coward." The larger man spat on the ground next to his head and eased off of the floor.

 

Illya quickly scrambled up and turned to face the other man with murderous rage singing in his blood.

 

The man just looked at him coolly, his hips leaning casually on the bar top behind him.

 

"Contrary to what people may think, only the scared lash out. Not the angry.” The man said with an American drawl as he took a sip of his unfinished drink, his eyes boring into Illya’s and his words sharp as daggers. “So tell me, Kuryakin, what are you so afraid of?"

 

Illya backed a step and bared his teeth. He spun around and desperately scanned the crowd behind him.

 

But Napoleon was already gone.

 

//////////

 

He caught up with Napoleon just as the other man was about to shut the door to his apartment.

 

“Napoleon, wait!” He said urgently. He grabbed onto Napoleon’s shoulder, then quickly let go as his Cowboy winced.

 

Napoleon jerked away from his grasp and made his way into the room, not looking at him and not uttering a word.

 

Illya, not knowing what to do and how to act now that he finally found Napoleon, just trailed along tentatively, like a lost puppy, unsure of its welcome.

 

He found his Cowboy in the kitchen, going through the ritual of making tea. He could see the tense lines of Napoleon’s shoulders and his white knuckled grip on the mug.

 

He wants to say something. He _needs_ to say something. But words wouldn’t come.

 

The dreadful silence continued, until it was finally broken by Napoleon slamming the mug down on the counter. Illya jumped.

 

“Why are you here, Illya?” Napoleon finally said, his back still turned and his voice tense.

 

 _I want to know you are safe._ He wanted to say.

_I want to say sorry for being an absolute bastard. I want to beg you for forgiveness. I want to tell you how much you mean to me. I want to hold on to you and never let go._

 

They words never make it past the lump in his throat.

 

"If you want an apology, fine, I'm sorry I never told you about it. But everything else? No, I won't apologise for having been an art thief because that's a part of me. And I most definitely won't apologise for meeting you." Napoleon finally turned towards him, eyes steely and tone challenging.

 

"I don't like lies."

 

Napoleon sagged against the fridge and closed his eyes. His voice was hoarse, almost a whisper. "I don't know what more you want from me, Illya." He said dejectedly, all that energy from a moment ago seemed to drain from his body.

 

"I am also hypocrite and jerk." Napoleon's head snapped up and he stared at Illya.

 

"I'm, I’m sorry, Cowboy.” Illya found himself stammering over his words, now that they finally came, knowing that this is his only chance at getting back the only thing he could not afford to lose. “I am very sorry, I, I thought, I believed you to be enemy agent. I thought it was all lies. Everything. I, I can't stand it. I, can't stand if it was all lies. It would break me. Break my heart."

 

He grew more agitated as Napoleon just kept on staring at him, eyes unfathomable.

 

"I am sorry I lied too. I am agent. Spy. Danger always follow me. I am sorry you are hurt. Because of me." His words got stuck in his throat and he found himself shaking as his mind replayed all the horrors it had conjured over the past few days.

 

Napoleon finally seemed to take mercy on him and walked forwards, his face softening.

 

"Hey, hey, shhhh. It's ok, big guy." Once again, it was Napoleon who tried to comfort and sooth him. The corner of his Cowboy’s lips quirked up as he tried to lighten the mood. "You know, when you put it like that. Don't you think I deserve a kiss at least for everything you've put me through?"

 

Illya froze and stared.

 

Taking the wrong cue, Napoleon held up a hand. "It's alright. I know you have trouble committing, in your line of work. I get that, I used to be terrified by the idea, too. It's alright."

 

"Cowboy. You can't, you, forgive me like that?" Illya found his voice getting thick as he voiced his thoughts disbelievingly.

 

Napoleon huffed and then teased. "What, were you expecting a confession on the deathbed?"

 

"No! No, deathbed. Never. I protect you now." He said vehemently.

 

"No more guns in my face? Shit, sorry, I just kept on making it worse, didn't I?" Napoleon ran an agitated hand through his already mused up hair.

 

"No. _I_ always make it worse.” Illya corrected him. He caught Napoleon’s wrist and ran his hand through those soft strands, trying to sooth it back to its usual impeccable style. Napoleon was staring up at him intently, his gaze searching and slightly desperate.

 

“Give me second chance?" Illya murmured, their faces now merely inches apart.

 

"Always." Napoleon replied breathily but there was a force behind his words.

 

"Cowboy. You deserve it."

 

Napoleon's eyebrows drew together in confusion.

 

Growling at the inadequacy of the English language, he simply closed the distance between them and finally, finally kissed his Cowboy.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> And at last they kissed! :D
> 
> To be fair, this fic was a bit too emotional and I really struggled writing that, although I did have a lot of fun with the dialogues. For those of you getting really confused about Gaby’s involvement in this and the OC, I’ll probably explain a bit more in the sequel.


End file.
